


Say my name, say my name

by omgchyeahplease (tangerinick)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Deanzy (the Rookie), Doc (the Rookie), M/M, Misunderstandings, Yeast (the Rookie), meet Jack "who the fuck is Eric" Zimmermann, outsider pov, rookie shenanigans, sympathy pies, the Bro voice, the outsider is Poots and Poots is confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28365330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinick/pseuds/omgchyeahplease
Summary: Zimmboni frowns, then says: "Who the fuck is Eric?"
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Poots (Check Please!)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 353
Collections: the renaissance fic collection





	Say my name, say my name

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is a 4.5k one-shot but i have like. so many people to thank for its existence? most of the omgcp renaissance discord, basically! yall kept me _insanely_ motivated for this 3-day spring! the best hype squad someone who hasn't written fanfic in over a year could ask for. 
> 
> more specifically, however, a thank you to li ([@stanthefrogs](https://stanthefrogs.tumblr.com/)) for your grammar edits! and also to necky ([@bittysthesis](https://bittysthesis.tumblr.com/)), who took the time to provide invaluable comments and edits on so many parts of this fic!

There are a few things Poots knows for certain about the rest of the Falcs. He _may_ be a rookie, but as a rookie still trying to cement his place in a NHL (holy shit!) locker room, he needs to do his best to pick up on the workings of his teammates. Tater, for instance: waking him up from any sort of nap is a guaranteed grumpy cat meme, unless you show him a picture of his dog in, like, the first minute. You don't disturb Marty during his pre-game routine — and Snowy as a goalie is already super intense, but Marty is just off the charts — and the best way to piss off Guy is a crack about his hair. Snowy decided after a back-to-back shut-out on a roadie that he and Poots must always sit within three seats of each other, and Zimmboni, well– Zimmboni's just a hard guy to read.

Seriously, though. Poots isn't sure if it's just him or just a general thing about Zimmboni's face. And his voice, which has the best monotone for a guy raised by one of the most emotive hockey players Poots knows of. Maybe all that life-long media training gave him the super-powers to be abso-fuckin’-lutely unreadable. It's not that he's totally expressionless either — and even if someone accuses him of it, Tater got Deanzy with some shaving cream at the first mention of _hockey robot_ — but Poots once told Zimmboni he thought his sarcasm was super difficult to understand.

"Yeah, my sarcasm is pretty hard to get," Zimmboni told him, and then walked away, and _to this day_ Poots still doesn't know if he was serious.

He tried asking Doc about it, but Doc is nineteen and not actually a doctor and since this is his second year with the Falcs, he's still the rookiest of the rookies, so what does Doc know. He may be gangly-tall and a stickler for grammar, but he knows nothing, apparently, either.

Like that one time on the plane from LA to Vegas: Poots overheard Doc telling Deanzy about how he broke the racing bike he'd bought with his first contract money. Zimmboni, from the row in front of them, turned away from his WWII documentary featuring grainy greyscale film and a buttload of tanks.

"Maybe your bike got too–" _two?_ "–tired?" Then, without another word, he turned back, leaving Poots wondering if he was the only one who'd heard that shit.

Or that other time, when Poots was helping Thirdy move the ping-pong table into the players’ lounge, and asked Zimmboni — buttering some of his girlfriend's homemade bread — if he could please make him a sandwich. Zimmboni stopped, then very quietly made his way over to a confused Poots, and bopped him on the head.

"Poof, you're a sandwich," Zimmboni said, but Thirdy was already gone, which meant that Poots had no one to check with.

All in all, it culminates in just... a super uncomfortable moment. Because a few months into Zimmboni's signing they learn — and that's not the uncomfortable part, Poots just wants to, like, emphasize that — that Zimmboni's mysterious girlfriend is, in fact, a _boyf_ riend. Which, don't get him wrong, Poots didn't know you could _do_? He's pretty sure the vets are pranking him for the first week, honestly, because guys just– they don't come out in Juniors. But apparently some NHL teams are different and, like, actual adults about it — and, thinking of that super weird summer Poots had with his buddy Mike, and that soft feeling he gets whenever Doc passes out in his bed and snores all cute and shit — Poots is honestly pretty relieved about it. But he's getting off track.

The point is, the family skate is where Poots first meets Zimmboni's _blonde baking boyfriend, Eric Bittle_ (Poots is quoting post-Cup press headlines). And then, at the start of both their third year with the Falcs, Eric Bittle stops showing up to family events. Zimmboni claims he's busy with a bunch of career-related stuff, like a cookbook, but Zimmboni also doesn't seem to be sleeping properly lately. There's these dark-ass shadows under his eyes and it's kinda super worrying. Worrying enough that Poots brings it up to Deanzy during one of their nightly roadie chats in front of the ice machine.

"Dude, maybe he's just stressed. Back-to-back cups, you know, legacy pressure, all that. Plus, he’s the first out-NHLer, that's bound to make a guy feel like he has something to prove."

Poots shakes his head. "I walked past his door on my way to Yeast's room last night, and I swear to god, I heard him _yelling_ at Eric over Facetime."

That whole thing was weird as hell, too. It's a horribly-hidden secret that Zimmboni facetimes his boyfriend – technically fiancé – nearly every night. It is _not_ a secret that Zimmboni _never_ raises his voice, at least not in front of the rookies. But, muffled, Poots heard: something indistinguishable, " _s_ _hitty,"_ more yelling, "shut the _fuck up,_ " and honestly, that was kinda scary, so Poots got the hell out of Dodge. 

"Should I ask him about it, d'you think? I'm concerned about the guy." Poots worries at his lower lip.

Deanzy shrugs, because Deanzy's been an on-off AHL call-up for a couple of years now, and has even more to risk than Poots does. "Your funeral."

It takes him way too much time to work up the courage, so by the time he opens his dumb mouth, they've played two OT games in two days and earlier, Tater nearly passed out on Snowy's shoulder when he went in for a hug. Poots had to give him a shake before he accidentally crushed their poor goalie.

"Zimmboni, can I talk to you for a hot second?" Poots asks on their way out of the bus.

Zimmboni just sort of blinks at him, eyelids drooping more than usual, but nods and lets Poots follow him to his car. He goes to open his passenger door (inside, Poots can see that mustachioed man that tends to be Zimmboni's driver when he's exhausted), and then looks at him (what Poots interprets as) both expectantly and vaguely annoyed.

"Listen," Poots starts, then stops. "Listen, let me know if it's not my place, but how is Eric doing?"

Zimmboni frowns, then says: "Who the _fuck_ is Eric?"

It's all Poots can do to stammer out a quick _sorry_ before he bolts.

He tells Doc about it the next day, because Doc is a bro.

"Dude, I think Zimmboni and Eric might be breaking up?"

Doc visibly gasps, but what's the real shock is the large _clang_ from the kitchen. Yeast — Poots' co-rookie in arms, they got signed with the Falcs the same year — comes sprinting into their living room, weilding a potato masher.

"They're _what?_ "

Poots eyes him, and the kitchen utensil currently splattering mashed potato all over his and Doc's carpet, with fear.

"I said–"

"I heard you, bro. I can't believe, this is like– oh my _god_ _._ "

"Full sentences," Doc reminds him, because he's a smartass. Yeast flicks potato at him, and Doc ducks to hide his Switch.

"You know I follow Eric's blog, right?" Yeast says. And yeah, _everyone_ knows that, because the first time Eric and the rest of Zimmboni's Samwell crew came to visit, Yeast lost his goddamn mind– and Poots has seen this guy meet Sidney fucking Crosby while looking like the epitome of _no-biggie_. But Yeast is super into cooking, which is why he's currently making Poots and Doc dinner (it has spinach!), so go figure, Poots can't afford to be a hater. "Eric stopped posting content, like, three months ago. Just posted some super vague announcement that he was working on something and needed a break."

Three months is the start of the season. "You don't think–" Doc starts.

"–Eric went publicly radio-silent because of Zimmboni?" Poots finishes for him.

Doc frowns. "That'd also explain why we've had, like, zero baked goods this season."

"Tater did send me a really confusing text about my jamming skills last week," Yeast adds. "I thought he was talking about instruments."

This is– holy shit. The first out-couple in the NHL, the Stanley-Cup-winning-goal-scorer who made a comeback through it all and is one of the chillest captains Poots has ever had, and all Poots wants to do is to give the guy a hug.

"I can't believe it," Doc echoes.

"I feel so bad for Zimmboni, man." Yeast bites his lip. "Should we talk to him about it?"

Poots shakes his head. "I tried that, he nearly bit my head off. He went all _who the fuck is Eric_ , like he didn't wanna talk about it _at all_."

Doc turns to Yeast, like he's having a _Eureka!_ moment. "You should bake him a support pie!"

There is a very long pause. Then, "... _we_ should bake him a support pie?"

No one ever taught Poots whether baked goods are proper etiquette on consoling your alternate captain through a breakup with — what some would consider — his dream guy. Pie seems reasonable.

They give it to Zimmboni the next day, in the players' lounge. To not overwhelm the guy, Doc is the one who ends up picking the short straw to actually give it to him. It's supposed to be an act of sympathy, to let Zimmboni know the rookies support him, they stand by him, he can talk to them if he needs to, etc etc. In case none of the vets have figured out Zimmboni's situation, they also make sure the players' lounge is empty when they do.

Poots and Yeast — and Deanzy, who's been filled in on the situation — are hanging out at the counter, pretending to be really, _really_ invested in the pictures of Deanzy's new fridge. Meanwhile, poor Doc is making his way over to Zimmboni with a pie tin in hand. He looks tired, and frankly, a bit dejected.

Zimmboni, that is, not Doc; Doc looks like he might cry. In a whispered confession to Poots last night, Doc told Poots he might be, like, _gay_ and shit, and Zimmboni's nonchalant coming-out was a Big Deal, and Doc is actually super emotional about it not working out between him and Eric. Poots called him a sap, and then cuddled him aggressively for the rest of the night.

"We brought you pie!" is what Doc opens with, thrusting out the pie tin. Poots wants to smack his face against the cabinets. Zimmboni just stops chewing his — store-bought, Poots notices — sandwich and looks confused. Granted, it's hard to tell with his face, but in his (ugly as fuck) shoes, that's how Poots would feel.

"... Thanks?" he says, after taking a very long pause to swallow. "You didn't have to?"

"Nah," Doc blurts. "We wanted to let you know that we're, like, there for you? It's gotta be really difficult when your significant other leaves you."

Zimmboni shrugs, but seems to take it like a champ. Poots feels like brushing away a tear. "It happens. It's for the best."

Doc nods along. Since Zimmboni seems to be taking it okay this time around, Poots ventures over, Yeast and Deanzy in tow. "We just want to support you, man. We're a team, after all."

Sometimes, Poots forgets that _if you get technical about it_ , despite his age, Zimmboni's just as much of a rookie on this team as Poots is. But it's the totally mature way in which he handles Yeast's awkward question of: "You guys seemed to be doing pretty well here, do you mind if I ask why?" that reminds him why Zimmboni has the A.

"We had to make the decision for his career. It's hard for now, but that'll end soon, hopefully, so."

"It'll get easier," Doc agrees.

It seems like all that team-ly support has some sort of effect, because Zimmboni goes out partying with them the next week. It's them, a bunch of the younger guys, and Marty, because Marty loves a good party. Party Marty. Not that they'd call him that to his face.

The club is absolutely pounding. Poots loses himself for a good two hours, pressed up against a flailing Doc as they dance their fuckin' hearts out. He's had three drinks, he's vibing, and when some pretty blonde tries to make out with him, he goes with it, because fuck it, he's a rookie cementing his place on a Stanley-Cup-worthy roster. He's the _king_.

When he breaks free, Doc is gone, and when Poots goes looking for him, all Poots can find is Tater convincing Snowy to buy him more shots. After turning down an offer to have Tater draw on his face with Snowy's emergency eyeliner, Poots wanders back to their little VIP section. Inside, he finds Zimmboni and Marty, laughing their asses off, both polishing off a beer.

Marty excuses himself to go get himself another drink, and Poots uses that moment to try and have a good heart-to-heart with Zimmboni.

"I know it's been rough lately, but I'm glad to see you're having fun?" he says. 

Zimmboni grins, this huge, sappy thing that Poots only ever really sees on the ice or, well, when Eric was still around. It's obvious he's had a drink, too.

"I don't do this often," he says, "but I'm basically living alone these days..." he trails off. "I needed a distraction."

Poots nods. "I'm glad to hear that, we were sort of worried with, you know, the whole Eric thing."

Zimmboni's smile drops, and Poots feels his gut freeze. "Eric…?" he asks.

"Shit, man, sorry," Poots manages to stumble out. _Fuck_ , he overstepped again. Here Zimmboni was, finally having a good time again, and he has to open his big mouth to remind him.

At that exact moment, Tater stumbles in, holding Doc in a headlock, complaining about _party shitters,_ and the topic changes to where the _hell_ Snowy’s shirt is. 

Poots doesn't remember a lot about the rest of the night, but what he does remember is this: it felt really nice to be pressed up under Doc's arm, Deanzy on tequila is a monster, and Marty trying to convince Zimmboni that calling he-who-must-not-be-named mildly intoxicated from a club is not a particularly good look, even though Zimmboni seems to think doing it at _this hour of the night_ is a great idea. 

The next morning, Poots peels himself out of Deanzy's armpit (gross) and off his and Doc's living room floor, and makes a heartfelt attempt toward the kitchen for some water. He fails by hurling into the sink, but _hey_ , he's thrown up in worse places, he'll count this as a W.

Under the kitchen table, nursing a hangover Gatorade, is where an excited Yeast finds him an undetermined amount of time later. Yeast looks as fresh as a daisy — and compared to Poots, smells like it too — and Poots fucking hates him in that moment.

"Check this out!" Yeast says, before Poots finds a phone thrusts under his nose. He takes a moment to squint at the light; tiny letters, _ow_. But eventually he distinguishes a tweet from @omgcheckplease, specifically from one Eric Bittle, apologizing for the silence, and that, _surprise_ , he's been doing an culinary internship in–

"Paris?" Poots looks up, even though it makes his stomach churn.

"Paris," Yeast confirms.

"Do you think Eric moved to Paris because him and Zimmboni were breaking up?"

Yeast shrugs, and then stands up from his squat. "Or the Paris thing broke them up? LDR over the Atlantic ocean on a NHL schedule can't be easy, dude."

"I tried bringing it up again last night," Poots admits, "but he pretended like he didn't know who Eric was. I really don't think he's over it."

Yeast's feet have started pattering around his kitchen, and Poots can hear his fridge opening. "Can you blame him? Thirdy told me they were teammates for years before they even started dating. To lose someone who's also, like, your BFF? Ouch."

Poots would like to blame it on the vodka that can't totally have made it out of his system yet. "I don't know what I'd do without Doc."

Yeast's clattering stops. "Bro."

"Bro," Poots echoes sadly.

"That's some of the softest shit I've ever heard you say." Yeast's face reappears under the table, and this time, he's holding out a plate of buttered crackers. "Eat up, fucker."

"I love you," Poots says.

Yeast laughs. "Tell me that in half an hour, when I'm forcing you to clean up your own puke."

Zimmboni's whole... situation comes to a head the next week, when Tater nearly busts their asses in the locker room after practice over _why the hell_ Yeast has been baking pies for Zimmboni but not for him, _no rookie loyalty,_ _Yeasty?_ Yeast kind of looks like a deer in headlights, cornered into his stall by Tater's large frame, so Poots steps in to save him from an overwhelming half-naked Russian, like any good teammate should.

"The pie was a joint rookie effort, Tates," he says.

Tater still looks affronted. "What Zimmboni do to deserve rookie pie, huh."

"It's a sympathy pie."

"Sympathy pie?"

"Yeah, because Eric left him," Yeast adds.

Tater squints, and asks, "Who is Eric guy?"

Poots thinks, _what,_ and with the way Deanzy stops stripping off his socks in the stall next to Yeast, he's pretty sure the thought is unanimous. "Zimmboni's ex-boyfriend?"

Tater squints even more. " _Who._ "

"Blonde baker?"

"You mean B? But is not– Bittle, yes?" Tater's face clears.

"Yeah?" Poots says. He knows _B_ and _Bits_ are the go-to hockey nicknames for Eric, but: "We know him as Eric, because that’s how he introduced himself to us and on his channel, you know?"

Tater is back to frowning, but this time, he's looking genuinely upset. "But B is not ex-boyfriend, why you say–"

Yeast goes, "Huh," at the same time that Poots goes: "Shit."

Something really, really weird occurs to him. He has to check something. There's no way– "Tater, have you seen Doc?"

"He still on ice. But why you say B is ex-boyfriend, is rookie prank? Yeasty, this is not nice, you know–"

Poots is not a good enough teammate to not leave Yeast to get grilled by Tater, because he has a much, much more burning question in mind. He books it out of the locker room, still half in his pads. Yeast's betrayed _Dude!_ rings out behind him.

When he gets to the ice, Doc is still there, ripping shots at an empty net, because he's extra and always feels like he has something to prove. Poots watches him, feeling a bit like a creep, but then again, Doc playing always fascinates him: dude is all long disjointed limbs that he somehow manages to coordinate. All at the same time. Like a talented baby giraffe.

"Doc!" Poots yells.

Doc looks up, surprised, and skates over. He's sweating like a dog as he leans over the boards toward Poots.

"Dude," Poots tells him, "I need you to not question this, but: do you know my first name?"

Doc's mouth opens to answer. And then it hangs there. He's quiet. Then, accusatory, "Do you know mine?"

"Jamie, right?"

"James."

"Shit," Poots says, again.

"The hell is this about?" Doc shakes his head.

"We're friends, right?"

"Yes."

"You could even say we're best friends. Roommates. Teammates. You've met my mom."

"Yeah, why does this matter? I know your last name, it's Fitzgerald, it's literally on your sweater, I don't get what point you're trying to–"

"Imagine we were dating."

"What." Doc's mouth snaps shut, and Poots watches, fascinated as his face slips into a scarlet shade of red under the soft blush from the rink’s cold. "If this is your way of asking me out, dude, you have like, _no_ game."

"I'm not–" Poots stops. Stares at Doc. "You don't sound pissed off at my hypothetical scenario," he blurts out.

Doc shrugs nonchalantly, but Poots _knows_ him. There is _nothing_ nochalant about that fuckin' shrug. "Hypothetical scenario, right?"

"Hypothetical scenario, yeah. Okay." Poots is getting distracted, so, so distracted. "So imagine we're dating, like, committedly. Committed enough to have marriage plans. After being teammates and sharing the same place for over a year. Would you _then_ remember my first name?"

Doc, bless him, takes Poots' question seriously, because he takes a moment to _actually_ think about it. "I mean; it'd be weird to suddenly start calling you something different? And everyone else we hang out with also calls you Poots. So unless I saw it on some official paperwork or in an article somewhere, I don't think it’d be the first thing that came to mind?"

"Oh my god. I might've fucked up."

Doc startles back a bit. "Was it something I just said?"

"What?" Poots backpedals. "No, no, that's fine, actually, we need to talk about it, but not– not now. I need to find Zimmboni."

"Rude," Doc says. "Seriously, you okay?"

Poots is already half-way back out of the tunnel. "Depends," he yells back at Doc, who just stares after him. He takes one last moment to look at the way Doc's hair curls insanely under his helmet, and then bails.

_"I don't know why I like you!"_ he hears behind him.

Thirdy watches him fistpump on his way to the parking lot, but Thirdy also doesn't ask questions, which is why Thirdy is his favorite vet on the team.

Poots catches Zimmboni at his car, just in time. It's not until he sees Zimmboni's alarmed look that he realises he's still wearing half his pads, as well as his flip-flops. Oh well.

"Do you know who Eric is?"

Zimmboni squints at Poots, looking– yeah, really confused, Poots doesn't blame him, but oh my god, Poots can totally get how he thought Zimmboni was _angry_ , shit. "You keep asking me about him, but I honestly don't know. Is he staff?"

"Jesus Christ, Jack," Poots exclaims, and Zimmboni's first name just slips straight out. It seems to surprise Zimmboni as much as it surprises Poots. "Your boyfriend, Eric?"

"Eric– wait, you mean– wait, yeah," and then Zimmboni starts laughing, like Poots isn't _losing_ his mind here, "I always forget that Bittle's first name is Eric. It's just a weird name, no? Even his mama calls him Dicky."

"His mom calls him– not the point. Zimmboni. I'm about to tell you something, but you need to swear to me you won't tell anyone else."

It's like flicking a switch. Zimmboni suddenly turns hella serious — that's _totally_ his good-captain face — and Poots gets pinned down by laser-blue eyes. "I swear. If this is a coming-out, though, I just want you to know tha–"

"What? No?" Zimmboni's mouth snaps shut, and he looks... embarrassed? At this point, Poots certainly doesn't trust his Zimmermann-reading abilities as far as he can throw them, and Poots may be a professional athlete, but considering the size of Zimmboni's ass and thighs, that's not far. "Well, yes, but– no? Okay, listen to me."

"Listening."

"Do you remember the beginning of the season? When you were super tired and sad and stuff? _Why_ was that."

Zimmboni visibly hesitates, and Poots finds himself startled. It's rare to see Zimmboni look so uncertain. Uncomfortable, yes, that was basically Zimmboni's permanent state off the ice in his first year, but uncertain? "You noticed?"

"Dude, you could fit groceries into those bags under your eyes."  
  


He rubs his forehead. "Did management notice?"

Poots wants to give this guy a hug. Again. The fuck is new about that. "Nah, man. Just me, and some of the other rookies."

Zimmboni shakes his head. "Okay, good. The thing is– you know Bittle is doing an internship in Paris?" Poots nods. "His hours are _insane_. And with the whole timezone thing, the only time we could really find to Facetime was at two in the morning. That just took awhile for me to get used to, and it's just been really hard to be away from him for so long."

Poots thinks, _oh_ , but Zimmboni continues, "I know it wasn't the most responsible alternate captain thing for me to do, but, well, I miss him?"

It's like a bunch of lightbulbs going off in Poots' head — the lack of baked goods — and so he blurts out, "So you and Eric didn't break up?"

Zimmboni's resounding _"What?_ " is an answer enough.

Poots is never going to live this one down.

Thankfully, identically to Poots, Zimmboni wants to bury the whole incident. After Poots explains what they've been thinking for the past few months — "Oh my _god,_ the support pie? I _thought_ that was kind of weird. I'm pretty sure Bittle got jealous when I told him, like I was pie-cheating." — Zimmboni seems to mutually understand that this can never, ever get out. Forgetting his fiancé's first name is not something one can publicly crawl back from. Jack "who the _fuck_ is _Eric"_ Zimmermann, everyone.

Deanzy nearly cracks his head open against a table laughing when Poots tells him the truth, and Doc, well– Doc nearly cries, he's so relieved. But they, and Yeast, also swear to never mention it again. They're rookies; they've still got at least a decade to go in the show if they're lucky, and they definitely don't want to spend that decade hearing about the time they thought Jack Zimmermann broke up with his fiancé and baked him a pie for it.

That is, until that summer's _hey-we-didn't-win-the-Cup-again-but-at-least-we-gave-_ _Boston-a-run-for-their-money-in-the-playoffs_ goodbye party, when Eric "Bitty" Bittle shows his face for the first time in nearly a year, armed with enough baked goods that it takes three burly Falconers D-men to carry it all inside.

Eric spends a solid hour with Marty and Thirdy's wives, recounting his Parisian baking adventures and the new cookbook he's writing about it, and then another hour entertaining the kids together with Doc. Poots' heart melts _so_ hard the first time he sees Doc let Marty's kid sit on his shoulders and kick his skinny sides like a horse, and then he sort of wants to punch a wall when Doc protects the kid's head when they go through a doorway, because Doc is such a soft bastard and Poots sort of loves him. No, not sort of. Yeah, no, Poots just loves him.

Eric comes over to where Poots is shooting the shit with Zimmboni and Snowy, hair wild and out of breath from an intense game of tag, and slots right under Zimmboni's arm.

"Jack, honey, I'm so sorry, but I might have to leave you for Doc. Sorry, Poots." He makes a face.

"Bits, Poots knows we'd never break up," Zimmboni says, absolutely unreadable. He doesn't even look at Poots when he says it. If Poots didn't know better, he'd — once again — never be able to tell Zimmboni was fucking with him.

Eric laughs. "Oh, you jokester."

Zimmboni's a hard guy to read. But apparently not to Eric Bittle.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
